Into the Light
by LoveIsBlindness
Summary: Light is viewed as a symbol of pure hope. However, in this 98th Hunger Games, light is not hope- it's a trap. In the previous Games, there was no Victor, so this year the Tributes are going to go through hell for the punishment of one girl. *OPEN*
1. Prologue

"_When he shall die,_

_Take him and cut him out in little stars,_

_And he will make the face of heaven so fine_

_That all the world will be in love with night_

_And pay no worship to the garish sun."_

-William Shakespeare, _Romeo and Juliet_

* * *

**Prologue**

The bright, blinding ray of sunlight rakes through the ruins like a knife threading the stiff air; the harshness of light creates long shadows amongst the fallen, worn buildings. Dust dances and spins relentlessly through the midst of air, collecting on the sandy, glittering ground. There are at least a handful of cracked, yellow skulls sprawled all over the ground, black eye sockets vacant and empty. As a stuffy breeze works its way through the wreckage of old ruins, sand gathers up and swirl wildly in the wind, escaping from the scene. The merest touch of the sand and eroded buildings burns the skin; the glowing orb of the sun has baked the ground below it.

In the deepest centre of the ruins is the District One male. He stands, graceful and lithe, in the mist of drifting dust and sand, silent as a shadow, and as slick as a panther. Sand begins to settle onto his greasy mane of black curls which cascade swiftly over his sharp, angular features like dark snakes. His narrow, ascetic face is expressionless and void of emotions as he stares dully at the bleeding corpse on the ground at his feet.

As quick a slithering snake, he steps back away from the corpse, afraid to get her drying blood onto his shoes. The dead girl was his District Partner. Her name is neither relevant nor significant to him as she is no longer a threat. She is now gone, not able to earn the Victor crown anymore. She's now no longer a threat to Slate; it's the District Seven female that is a threat.

For days on end, Slate hasn't seen the District Seven female. She has just disappeared into thin air during the Bloodbath, taking away into the scorching desert with at least an axe and a heavy bag. Slate can remember her vaguely, as she never piped up interest in him. She was tall and slim, but there is an appearance to her that doesn't seem to be rather intimidating or frightening. So, assured with this knowledge, Slate wanders through the ruins...

This will be his final hunt…

Beyond the mess of destroyed buildings is a span of sandy hills, not a trace of a single green plant in sight. This desert appears to be so peaceful and remote, so it will be difficult for him to take out the District Seven girl if she has hidden herself efficiently – unless the Capitol ushers her out of her hiding place.

…

A cannon erupts across the entire arena; its sound eerily haunted with a hint of misery.

The District Seven female's head snaps sharply up towards the sound of the cannon. _It's time_, she thinks reluctantly but determinately. It's time for her to come out of her isolated – but safe – haven. It is now only her and the one of the District One tributes.

She wistfully wishes that the other remaining tribute is the female, because according to her observing during the training days, she doesn't like the male. He appeared to be sadist and silent to her, his eyes hidden behind a veil of black hair. He had scared her; his every movement was silent and slick like shadows, his bulky build intimidating and menacing, his small smirk cruel.

Scurrying out of her hiding place amongst the prickles of bushes, her dirty arena clothes tear as the thorns claw desperately at her. Oakley groans in exasperated pain as she slowly rises up onto her feet once she is out in the scathing glare of the sun, her every joint are stiff and glued together after days of being crouched in the small space beneath the bushes. Blinking against the sun, her azure eyes slowly adjust to the new light. She could swear that the sun in this desert is intended to blind her.

Rounding her shoulders, she stretches herself momentarily before picking up her axe and ditching her nearly empty bag, she walks across the hills of sand, towards the ruins of the town. When she was dumped into the arena during the bloodbath, she scarcely scanned the Cornucopia to see what the place is like as she was too busy trying to get all of the supplies she needed to survive. She can easily recall the bloodbath still. She remembers how it was chaotic and filled with blood-curdling screams, the crimson colour of blood gushing through the sand in rivulets.

And now, she's returning to that place. But she doesn't have a choice. If she doesn't meet up with the other remaining tribute, the Gamemakers would shoo her in that direction.

Also, it's probably best to this done with…

Oakley rolls her eyes and arches her head towards the clear, blue sky which resembles her sister's smiling eyes perfectly. In a sarcastic voice, she shouts out to the sky, directing her words to the Capitol, "TIME TO GET YOU YOUR LOVELY VICTOR!"

…

Slate swirls around, his eyes widening in remote shock. The bellowing is from the right direction. A cruel, sick smile graces his face as he strides briskly towards that direction, his mace heavy but snug in his palm.

The sun seems to be getting a lot hotter and brighter as he saunters through the desert, in search for the District Seven female. Maybe the Gamemakers are getting impatient… They want to have their acclaimed Victor now. Well, they will have to wait, as Slate is planning to have one last, long torturing session with his new victim…

"Oh, District Seven, just wait till you meet me and you'll envy all of the other Tributes," Slate murmurs, his voice deadly and serious.

…

They approach each other when the sun has turned on its hottest and brightest volume. The temperature in the arena is now suffocating and powerfully scorching. Oakley's brown fringe is glued to her forehead with sweat, moisture visible on her skin. Slate's breathing has become heavier and shallower.

The Gamemakers are impatient to get their 97th Hunger Games Victor; Oakley can easily figure that out.

For a moment, they stand there, facing each other from more than ten feet apart, observing each other carefully and slowly… Disappointment consumes Oakley as she watches Slate. _It's him, not the District One female, oh shoot_. She knows that this makes the situation even worse and harder for her. She _must_ not let him defeat her.

He is only in the Games to win the fame and money. Meanwhile, she is in the Games to survive. He volunteered; he asked for this. She was reaped; she was forced for this.

So, with no choice left, he has to die. She can't feel any pity or sympathy for him, because he _wanted_ this.

With an mad battle cry, Slate instantly springs into action, his eyes flaring and burning with a deep passion in them. He darts forward on his two, uninjured legs, moving with a pure gracefulness that it seems that he is sliding across a floor of oil. Oakley hesitates just for a moment, watching with wide eyes as Slate raises his massive mace. He's a lot bigger and stronger than her, so does she actually have a chance in this?

Just before Slate can swing his chained mace at the girl, Oakley lurches backwards, narrowly avoiding the fatal blow. Slate grunts in frustration, snapping his eyes up and interlocking them with Oakley's ones. Urged by a sudden stubbornness, Oakley laughs at him. It's easy to anger the District One male, and that's his weakness, so Oakley is going to use that for her advantage in order to survive.

Jerking up the mace, Slate narrows his black eyes. "Don't get me angry, District Seven. If you anger me, you'll suffer through a terrible, long death."

"Oh really? Oh my gosh, I never knew that!" she shouts out in a sardonic manner.

Being mocked by a lower District tribute infuriates Slate even more. He lunges forward, swinging his mace wildly and madly. The air whistles as the mace shoots towards Oakley. A little gasp ripples from Oakley's lips; she ducks her head just in time for the mace to swing across the air above her. Slate makes another aim, driven by rage and a sadist desire, this time Oakley easily dodges the blow as she darts to his left side.

_Stop playing, Oakley, just kill him, _she thinks. Squinting her eyes at him, she creates a new aim at his open chest. Slate sees her pausing, so he raises his mace, preparing himself for a dangerous hit to her shoulders. However, Oakley beats him to it; in a lightning speed she swings the deadly axe through the air, the blade glinting dazzlingly, and rakes it across his chest, opening a gaping hole which pulses blood.

Slate's hands unlatch themselves on the mace, and the weapon flies down to the ground at his feet as he doubles over. A large 'O' forming on his pale lips. The blood is flowing from his chest too quickly, he will die too soon.

"You bitch," he rasps in a furious, yet vulnerable, voice. "It was meant to be me who was going to be the Victor…"

Oakley doesn't waste any of her pity on him as she listens to his gasping of grief. "Well, I'm not going to be the Victor either."

Before Slate or the Gamemakers could do anything to stop her, Oakley drops the axe and reaches into her pocket, bringing out the wicked-looking knife that she saved for herself. Tipping her head towards the sky, she bellows out, "You're not going to have a Victor this year! How would you feel about that?"

And she suddenly slashes her own throat with the knife, releasing the blood that pulsate throughout her body. She drops to her knees. Her hand lashes up to her throat, coming away with crimson, stained blood. Her azure eyes roll back into her skull.

She wanted to give the Capitol no Victor, because that would make them very unhappy. And that was all she wished for in her life.

There is no last stand tribute as both Slate and Oakley drift away into nothingness…

* * *

The President is outraged.

Her eyes are a cold, steely grey masked by disbelief and anger as she watches the television screen. Just before the District Seven girl killed herself, Thorns was tapping impatiently and rhythmically on the mahogany desk – but now she is frozen like a marble statue, her cheeks twitching. It's unbelievable. This never ever happened before…

There is no Victor for the 97th Hunger Games.

No tribute was alive.

The Hunger Games was never meant to be like that… Having only one child alive was supposed to give the Districts hope, and hope is worse than pain. Without hope, the Districts would rebel and try to take back what rightly belongs to them… But as the President of Panem, Vera Thorns simply can't allow this to occur. She has to stay in charge, she has to keep her tight, almost tangible grip on the Districts. The Districts will to be broken and weak.

Thorns can vaguely hear the screams of pure anger coursing through the Districts. She can feel her heart hammering at a high pace in her chest. _Thump, thump. Thump, thump._

She has to do something to disentangle the threads that would lead to a new rebellion. Standing up briskly, the President scans the room; she is in her bedroom with the red, fluffy carpet sprawled over the wooden floor, the walls a deep shade of crimson. She switches the television off, abruptly cutting off Julius Templesmith (the eldest son of Claudius, the most previous and famous announcer of the Hunger Games) when he is in the middle of a breakdown, tears streaking down his face as he nervously tries to sugar-coat his lies to the audience. Thorns rolls her eyes, at last the sound of his high-pitched and purely ridiculous accent has vanished.

Her high heels click and clank noisily as she marches to the door, grabbing a fur coat on the way. It's her duty to punish the ones who have made a grave, big mistake… And they'll pity Lucifer for only being banished to Hell.

…

Angelina Goldsworthy, the Head Gamemaker, is almost paralysed from the grave shock that has hit her after it was announced that neither Oakley nor Slate survived. There is _no_ Victor… It's unheard of in the history of Panem. Every single Games had their own Victor, but the 97th Hunger Games doesn't have one. And this was her first year as the Head Gamemaker.

What did she do to cause this? Should she have killed Oakley by setting a group of mutts onto her? What if Oakley didn't have weapons, and Slate would have won? There would've surely be a Victor. She solely made a mistake, it's not her fault.

What will the President Thorns do to her? Is she going to torture her? Make her watch her children die?

Thorns is well-known for punishing the criminals. One of her signature skill of killing somebody is wrapping a long stem of sharp, rose thorns around the neck of the victim and strangling them to death…

"Angelina, are you alright?"

Angelina doesn't crane her neck to glance at the too-familiar voice; she's practically frozen in her exact spot.

"Angelina, look at me. Angel!" Strong, firm hands latch onto her trembling shoulders and jerkily turn her around. Involuntarily, she blinks against the light and slowly her gaze interlocks with the hazel eyes of Chance. He stares at her with wide, concerned eyes. "Are you alright?"

"Alright?!" Angelina finally snaps apart; it is like her pieces of her body are breaking into pieces like glass shattering, and the shards are scattering all over the floor, some lost forever. "How can I be _alright_? THERE IS NO VICTOR!"

Slowly standing up, Angelina pushes Chance away and faces the Gamemakers, all squashed into the room. "What did we do to cause this? WHAT DID WE DO?!"

It is only silence that responses to her. The Gamemakers all watch her; some amused and smug, some terrified, others expressionless. But none of them convey a trace of sympathy or worry for her. None of them care if she's going to die in the hands of the President.

But there is one person who does care. "Angel, you need to get out of here. Go now before the President is here," Chance urges her, shoving her roughly in the direction towards the doors. She sharply looks at him, feeling betrayed by the fact he's leaving her to escape on her own, but once she catches a glimpse of outright fear and panic in his eyes, she nods reluctantly and turns to run away.

…

Flanked by a group of at least eight or nine Peacekeepers, President Thorns enters the Gamemakers' large office, her eyes as hard as steel.

In the office, there are over three dozens of Gamemakers, most of whom are General Gamemakers. All of them are squashed into the room and seem to be arguing. Thorns raises an eyebrow, amused. The room is a mess of chaos: There are sheets of paper all sprawled over the floor with the pictures and names of the tributes, the walls are stained with red wine, shards of glass scatter all over the desks and floor, one black table is tipped over onto its back, the curtains are ripped down.

And the Gamemakers are all arguing and screaming at somebody in the centre. Surely it's Angelina they are screeching at…

The President has never ever seen anything as worse as this before. The Gamemakers all got on well, or so she thought. And seeing the mess they disrupted has surprised her for a minute. This goes far to prove how having no Victor is extremely bad.

"EVERYBODY SHUT UP! RIGHT NOW!" Thorns bellows so loudly and audibly that the room relapses into a deadly silence. She smirks, but her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "Thank you, ladies and gentlemen."

The Gamemakers part way in the throng to allow entry for the President to walk through. Her face is a mask of disdain and contempt as she peers through the faces, most of which are unfamiliar to her. They all avert their eyes from her icy ones, as if they can't even dare to look at them for a second. Once Thorns comes face-to-face with Chance, the Mutation Head Gamemaker, she instantly realises that Angelina is nowhere in sight.

Suppressing a frown, she smiles sweetly at Chance. "What's going on here?"

"Well, um, you know, we don't have a Victor…" He pauses, "And that is causing trouble for us."

"Oh, of course, not a surprise then," Thorns says in a sweet, sugary voice. "I'm here to talk to Angelina. Have you seen her?"

At this, Chance swallows, his Adam-apple bobbing nervously up and down. "I don't know…"

Thorns' sweet smile immediately falls from her face like a curtain slipping over her features, and she glares with hard, steely eyes at Chance. "I know you know where she is. You are her lover." She flashes her finger up, silencing Chance. "Don't even bother lying! She has been having an affair with you behind her husband's back."

His entire face turns into a mask of white, like he has just seen a ghost. He splutters pathetically, "Er, w-well… I-I have n-n-no idea where s-she is."

"Liar," hisses a voice from behind Thorns. The President swirls around; her stick-straight black hair swishing through the tense air.

A man dressed in a smart, black tuxedo stares expressionlessly at Chance, but there is a little glint in his eyes. The other Gamemakers are all staring in wonder as the stranger steps forward, meeting Thorns' steady gaze. He seems not to cower under Thorns' icy, callous eyes.

"Who are you?" Thorns demands. She hates no knowing who this man is as he appears not to be threatened by her. How come she never seen him before?

"I'm Varys Norbert," he replies coolly.

She waves her hand dismissively. "Why did you call Chance a liar?"

"Because he's lying. He full well knows where Angelina is."

Thorns raises an eyebrows sceptically, glancing over her shoulder towards Chance to shoot him a glare. "Oh what a surprise," she says sarcastically. "So, do _you_ know where she is?"

Norbert grins derisively, and his teeth gleam like shark teeth. "She is in the basement. There are tunnels there. I have a feeling she's going to be gone in just a couple of minutes…"

Thorns furiously pivots on her heel to face the Head Peacekeeper; his face stoic and motionless, his white uniform as crisp as a dry leaf. "Get over ten Peacekeepers and go and get Angelina. Once you got her, bring her to the Death Chamber."

The Head Peacekeeper curtly nods, and with that he disappears from the room with two other Peacekeepers. There are quiet ripples of whispers coursing throughout the crowd. The Death Chamber is where criminals and rebels are taken to, and all never come back out.

Thorns turns back to Chance, her face grim as ever. "You're coming with me."

…

They grabbed the Head Gamemaker just before she could escape. And took her to the unwelcoming Death Chamber…

A Peacekeeper pushes the glass door open and shoves Angelina in, slamming the door behind her. Whimpering, Angelina peers up through her heavy shroud of blonde hair, gasping when her eyes land onto her children and her lover, Chance, all tied up in chairs. A clanking of high heels slowly approach her, but she doesn't dare look up at the person.

"Are you in pain?" the familiar voice asks in a sugary tone. Angelina doesn't reply, why should she? This is the President. She doesn't care if Angelina is hurt. However, due to the silence that responded to the President, Thorns' tone suddenly transforms into a bitter, acid one. "Look at me!"

Obeying her command, Angelina cranes her neck up so her eyes fall onto the cruel woman. Her eyes are blinded by the vivid, bare light bulb that swings on its loose string on the ceiling. But as Thorns bends down onto her knees, Angelina can make out her raven black hair that falls like silk over her shoulders.

"What you did was very, very bad," Thorns says patronisingly, adding in a sound like 'tsk, tsk.'

"I'm s-so-so sorry," Angelina sobs. Tears pool up in her eyes, making her vision blurry.

"Sorry is just a word. It doesn't do anything to clean away your mistakes, so saying it is not going to help you."

Angelina sobs even more. "Please, p-please, I beg you just let my daughters and Chance go."

"They're going nowhere. If you have been more careful, then they would have been safe," Thorns reasons in a cold, piercing voice.

"But they did n-nothing wrong!" Angelina wails. "My girls are just children!"

"Yes, I know. They're just children, but the tributes that you killed were children as well. They had parents. They had a mother, like your daughters here have you."

"You forced me to kill them! You told me that if I don't, my life would at risk!" Angelina screeches out like a cat yowling.

Thorns regards her coldly, her grey eyes sweeping over the features. "How dare you blame _me_!"

"She's saying the truth!" Chance yells out, his voice combined with fury and fear. Thorns leaps up to her feet, eyes flaring as she slaps Chance across the face, her nails raking across his skin. Blood trickles down his face.

"Shut up, you're not allowed to speak," the President hisses. She straightens up, smiling before a light comes across her eyes like a bulb has lit up inside her skull. "Actually…I think it's time for Angelina to watch you…die."

Chance stares up at her, gaping. "B-But you s-said I-I'm going to turn i-into an Avox-"

"Hah," Thorns laughs, sounding insane for a mere second. "You should never believe my lies…"

Angelina watches in horror as Thorns strides to the metal table propped against the left wall, she slips on dense, thick gloves. Then Thorns carefully picks up a long stem adorned with sharp thorns. The stem resembles a barbed wire so accurately, because the thorns are long and dangerous-looking. Angelina's daughters both cry out and squirm in their ropes. A gasp bubbles up inside Angelina as she helplessly watches the President saunters, with a smirk on her face, towards her lover.

"Shush, shush," Thorns presses her forefinger against Chance's lips before he can part them open to muster up something to say. Walking around Chance, she turns to look Angelina in the eye. "Your husband is lucky not to be here, because it will be your lover to take the fate of death in front of your own eyes."

And with that, Thorns yanks the rope of thorns over Chance's head and pulls at it, strangling him at the throat. Chance makes a horrible yowl filled with prominent pain; he struggles uselessly in the ropes that tie him against the chair. The light bulb above Angelina's head is dangling and swinging swiftly, casting off stretching shadows in the corners. All Angelina can hear are the screams of Chance, the terrified wailing of her daughters, and the mad cackle of Thorns.

Then abruptly, Chance's hands fall limp, his eyes turn glassy and glazed, his chest stop heaving with each breath. He's dead. The blood on his throat is thick and dark, appearing like black fluid in the tinted light.

Angelina suddenly wails, stricken by grief as she stares helplessly at her beloved one.

Thorns smirks, the smile looks cruel and evil on her face. "Now, it's the girls' turn."

"No, no, no!" Angelina shrieks out. "NOT THEM! PLEASE!"

"Hey, hey, calm down. I'm not going to hurt them," Thorns says. Her tone purposefully sounding reassuring and gentle, but Angelina knows her better than that. With her last effort and strength, Angelina strings up onto her feet; however her legs are stiff and tied together so she hobbles towards her daughters, placing herself in front of them.

Thorns sighs exasperatedly. "Get out of the way, Goldsworthy."

"No," Angelina rasps out threateningly. There is no way she is going to allow Thorns lay one finger on her children. Thorns can have her own fingers to herself, or Angelina will have to bite them off.

Despite the intimidating threat Angelina is casting off, Thorns steps towards her and swiftly lashes out, she slaps the woman across the face, hard. The Head Gamemaker staggers backwards, tripping over. Her cheek is in savage pain; she is very certain that there will be a red mark on it later…if she stays alive.

Angelina climbs to her feet, desperate and frantic, unfortunately she is too late. Thorns, in a lightning speed, opens the eldest girl's mouth and grabs hold of her tongue. The tongue is wiggling in a wild panic in her fingers like a worm. Taking out a sharp blade from her nearest pocket, Thorns begins to saw at her tongue. Angelina cries out and hobbles forward, only to be kicked away by Thorns. Once the President got the loose tongue in her bloodied hand, she moves onto to the next girl, jerking her mouth open impatiently and sawing at the red tongue. The eldest girl's eyes are wide and frantic, the blood gushing from her mouth like a river. Angelina can never imagine the pain her daughters are in…

Turning onto to the mother, Thorns plucks the second tongue from the other child's mouth and waves the two crimson tongues in the air, blood flies into the air in droplets. "Don't they look like red slugs?" she comments, observing the two bloody pieces curiously. A frown furrows itself onto her forehead, and she dismissively tosses the pieces aside. "Ew, just touching them is gross."

"You bitch."

Thorns' eyebrows shoot up in mock surprise. It can only be Angelina who blurted that out, as her daughters are now mute forever. But for the first time, Angelina doesn't care what Thorns would do to her. It's like she has transformed into a whole new person; all of her fear has diminished and replaced by stubbornness and bravery.

"Did you just call me a bitch?" Thorns slowly asks her.

"Of course, it's true. We all think you're a bitch," Angelina snarls, spittle flying from her lips.

Thorns smirks derisively. "I'm glad they think so, because I don't need to be liked. Anyway, enough of chattering – it's time for you to die."

The word 'die' makes Angelina flinch just a slightest. Thorns marches towards her, her high heels clanking audibly on the marble floor, the knife she used to cut out the little girls' tongues out is still bloody and stained in her hand. Angelina glares at her defiantly.

Thorns holds out her bloody knife, the red fluid dripping off the tip of the blade. "You have slit this across your throat, just like what Oakley did."

The Head Gamemaker was incredulous and speechless. "What!" she finally splutters out. "Are you telling me to kill myself? Why?"

"Because you allowed your Victor kill herself." Thorns watches her with steely, pale grey eyes, her fingers are smooth and flawless as they grip onto the knife. "Go on, do it. I don't have much time."

Shocked, Angelina glances towards her daughters. "Please don't let them see at least…please."

"No, they're watching," Thorns says bluntly.

The tone in her voice indicates something, making Angelina realise that she has no choice. She has to do it. In front of her children, no matter how cruel it sounds. She has to do it or Thorns will do something to make her obey. Fingers shaking, she slowly and tentatively reaches up for the knife. Thorns, a Cheshire grin on her face, watches her. The knife goes up to Angelina's throat, shaking from the vibration of her fingers. The woman glances towards her two daughters, both squirming in their chairs, shaking their heads and opening their mouths with nothing coming out like fish gasping in the open air.

"I'm sorry. Please remember that I love you both more than anything else." And with that, she pulls the sharp knife across her smooth and unscarred throat, welcoming blood to the air.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Hello guys! Here is Luce, with her awesome author's note, lol. Anyway, this was the prologue for Into the Light. I hope you enjoyed it, because I worked hard on it!

For each chapter I'll be including a Sponsor Question (or maybe two, we'll see) on things like this story or about you (don't worry, they're not that personal). Yes, you're wondering about the Sponsor list, but in fact I'm not going to put up one, because you can pick whatever you like! For each question that you answer you'll gain £10, but for the Extra Special Questions, you'll get £20. But also, these questions mean that you'll have to review which helps me know who is reading the story and who is not (those who are not, then their tribute will have to die in the bloodbath, because that's fair).

Also, there are still some spots open for the tributes! So, if you don't have a tribute, please contact me for the tribute form :D Here are the open spots:

District Five Male;

District Six Female;

District Eight Male;

District Nine Female;

District Eleven Male;

District Twelve Male.

Yep, there's a lot of spaces to be filled ;)


	2. Absolute Hell

**Part One: The Tributes**

"_If some persons died, and others did not die, death would indeed be a terrible affliction."_

-Jean de la Bruyere

* * *

**Absolute Hell**

Varys Norbert was immensely delighted – but never showed it – when the President approached him after killing silly Angelina Goldsworthy and told him he is the next Head Gamemaker. His entire world changed in that one day. It was as if his old, drab life crashed down all around him, revealing the golden lights of the splendid new life that greeted him in that one day. For months and months, he carefully and precisely planned a new arena – one that is intended to make the tributes' lives a lot tougher…

A knock on the door jolts Varys back to the reality, he blinks momentarily as his memories all disappear like paper fluttering away into the midst of air. "Who is it?" he calls out, attempting to show no hint of resentment but failing.

"It's me – the President," the familiar voice says. Varys grinds his teeth in frustration and stands up, walking over to the door and swinging it open. In the doorway is President Thorn;, her jet black hair as dark as her ashy black suit and as straight as a sheet of paper, her grey eyes steely and cold with a glint of mischief in them. She is tall and slender with freckles over her cheeks and arms, but her skin is oddly pale, making her almost luminous. Varys has an impassive mask on as he nods at the President, quietly greeting her. He has a deep hatred for Thorns, but he still respects her due to the effort and work she made to quell the beginning flames of a new rebellion last year. She has managed to keep her position as the President – as the most powerful and important person in Panem ever – very well.

"Ah, hello, Varys," Thorns says in that typical, too-sweet tone she always employs with other people.

"Hello, President Thorns," Varys replies monotonously. He gestures towards the inside of her private office. "Please come in and make yourself comfortable."

"Call me Thorns." The President flashes him a smile before striding in, her high heels making an irritable clanking noise, and she slowly sits down in Varys' black recliner chair behind the desk. Thorns runs her fingers over the smooth patterns of wood on the desk. "Don't call me President Thorns, or even Vera Thorns."

Varys pauses, uncertain and suspicious. "And why should I call you Thorns?"

Thorns glances up at him, her thin, dry lips parting open to form an 'O.' "Why? Because you're my friend, of course!"

"I don't have friends," Varys blurts out before he can halt himself and think through his words. The woman studies him closely, her steely eyes sweeping over from the top of his dark blonde hair to the tips of his black, polished shoes.

"So do I," she admits finally, losing all traces of friendliness and sweetness in her voice. "But you're still allowed to call me Thorns."

"Okay…Thorns."

She smirks smugly. "See, it's not too hard!"

Varys stares at her blankly, his facial expression void of emotions. He's now impatient and wishes to have the power to command her to exit his room so he can get on with preparations for the Reapings later in the day. "Thorns, may I ask politely – why are you here?"

Thorns laughs dryly. "You're definitely impatient, eh? Well, I'm here," she says, abruptly getting to the point, "to discuss some last matters with you." Varys nods, listening carefully. "Have you decided which Mentors to use this year?"

"Yes," Varys confirms. "Katniss, Johanna, Finnick, Enobaria, Beetee and Haymitch are all still Mentors, as usual."

"Good." She smiles, satisfied that is out of the way. "Have you rigged some of the Reaping bowls?"

"Of course. Some of the tributes this year will be certainly interesting…"

Thorns' smile stretches across her marble-hard, white face. "Excellent. Let me see your arena plan."

Varys briskly walks over to the desk and plucks up a folded sheet, the careful, precise sketches hidden away inside. Prying it open, he spreads it out onto the desk in front of Thorns. The President leans over, her ironed-straight hair cascading over her shoulders as she peers at the map. A smile tugs at the corners of her taut lips.

"This looks interesting. Good to know it's not going to be a forest or a desert – those are boring nowadays." Thorns observes the arena map that Varys drew personally, then she reaches into her right pocket above her breast and pulls out an envelope. She waves it in the air. "I want you to add this twist to the Games this year, understood?"

She hands the crisp, white envelope to Varys and stands up. She watches with a slightly smug look on her face as he opens the envelope and reads it. A course of shock, agitation and distress ram straight into his heart like a spear had been plunged into him. He stares, incredulous, at the neat handwriting on the paper.

"This is impossible," he whispers in disbelief, even though the idea of the twist is a complete genius one.

"It is _possible_," Thorns interrupts. "You're the Head Gamemaker, you can make it happen. Just use a few touches of magic, then it would be perfect."

"I'll try my best," Varys says in the end.

"If you disappoint me," Thorns glares at him sternly, her voice cold as ice, "you know what I can do to you." The warning was quiet but threateningly. And with that, she strides out of the dim room, leaving him all alone with the twist on a single piece of paper in his hands. A sense of apprehension consumes Varys. He knows that he got a lot of work to do…

* * *

Once the President has arrived back in her bedroom, she dismissively flings her suit jacket to the side and picks up the television remote control. She is pleased with herself, because now she has Varys Norbert in her tight and suffocating grip; he will obey her every will like a puppy. Switching the television on, she carefully picks up her black cat called Sonny and sits down onto her loveseat, pulling Sonny on top of her lap as she curls up lithely.

Sonny instantly purrs when Thorns begin stroking him, his slit eyes half-closed. The woman smiles gently down at him – he is her world, without him she would be very lost and resentful to the world. She can vividly remember the day she found him in the streets like it's just yesterday. He was just a kitten, midnight black and round like a fuzzball, on his chest was a white blotch resembling a bow-tie. And he was alone, hunting in the trashcans for food. When Thorns slowly approached him, he immediately purred and went to her, looking for attention and love. Thorns was besotted with him, so she simply picked him up and took him home with her.

Glancing back up to the television screen mounted up on the wall, she turns on the 'Reaping' channel, especially made for her, just her. The Reapings haven't started yet, but the square in each Districts are slowly being filled up already, and the Mentors are either walking onto the stage or slumped on their chairs. Each Reaping are shown in twelve boxes on the screen, revealing all of the Districts at the same time.

She smiles coldly, an evil glint in her eyes as she watches the Mentors. When Finnick Odair appears, she chuckles bitterly at the man with golden hair, there are streaks of grey in his hair, and beneath his eyes are heavy, dark bags. In District Two, Enobaria's eyes observe the square carefully, the black pupils dilating. Whereas, in District Seven, Johanna Mason stumbles onto the stage, her eyes on the clouds taking cover over the sky, there is a wild hint of outright fear in them. Thorns laughs, the sound low and vaguely audible – Johanna Mason is still purely terrified of water after the torture she endured during the rebellion.

However, Thorns' smile falls completely when she spots a glimpse of Katniss Everdeen. The Victor has a dead, emotionless expression on her face, her eyes filled with stricken-grief. Katniss Everdeen was Thorns' archenemy…

Vera Thorns was only ten years old when the rebellion occurred, and many lives were lost due to the war the Districts sparked. And it was all Katniss' fault. Thorns lost her father to the war, and she can still clearly remember the sound of her mother sobbing as her beloved one fell under the guns. It was a terrible day for Thorns; she saw scarlet ponds of blood and dead corpses in the streets which used to be perfectly clean and bright with life.

She thought for a moment that the Capitol was going to lose…

And that the Districts would win.

Fortunately, President Snow sent out hundreds of Peacekeepers and mutts to capture Katniss and her allies, commanding them to not kill the Victors as they were special and symbolic. And they captured Katniss, Peeta Mellark, Finnick Odair and other rebels amongst them. Then hovercrafts, filled to the brim with trained soldiers and Peacekeepers, invaded District Thirteen. They grabbed Alma Coin, the leader of the District, and the Capitol rebels, along with Katniss' family and friends.

Then they bombed District Thirteen, deep into the ground with the most powerful nuclear explosions. The bombs eventually killed the last members of District Thirteen, whilst the District Twelve people were taken away and transported to a new home – not their old area as it was bombed to pieces, but a new area with coal in the ground.

Alma Coin and Katniss' family and friends were taken to the Capitol in dense manacles. All of them along with the Victors that rebelled were taken to the large square in front of President Snow's mansion, and there they faced the snake-like eyes of Snow. Some of them were sobbing pathetically, some others defiant, the rest impassive.

President Snow tied Katniss Everdeen to a pole and forced her to watch her family and friends die… It was her punishment.

If she was killed, that would have ended her punishment abruptly, and she needs to be punished for life.

Initially, it was Katniss' mother, slit at the throat and bleeding to death on the marble ground. Next, it was her young sister, Primrose, the blonde, little fair, naïve girl. Thorns can remember the mix of rage and surprise yelling in the crowd as they watched Primrose being strangled to death. They believed it was wrong for the little girl to die, despite the high amount of twelve years old that died in the Hunger Games, but the President told them it was her destiny to die, and it's Katniss' fault.

After Primrose's death, Katniss was utterly broken, she could barely scream out while Gale Hawthorne and his relatives were all shot to death, their blood spattering over her face. Her eyes had been filled with sorrow and downright grief. But it wasn't over. Peeta Mellark was the last of all. He was forced into the circle, his blonde hair soaked with sweat, his clear eyes interlocking with Katniss' for a last moment.

President Snow made sure he had a painful death. One that was intended to send a message to both Katniss and the other Victors. Whilst his torture, Katniss couldn't even muster up a cry or a scream, she just watched with a ghostly pale face; she was completely and utterly speechless…

Katniss was never killed, but Alma Coin was. She had the cleanest death out of all; she was shot squarely in the forehead.

The only Victor who died was Peeta Mellark, and his death was a punishment for Katniss' ruthless, selfish actions. The rest of the Victors, especially the ones who were involved in the rebellion were forced to face relentless Mentoring each single year. Haymitch, Katniss, Finnick, Johanna, Beetee and Enobaria have to Mentor every single year…

Also, the Games continued, only more cruel and vicious then before…

Thorns knows what happened on that Payback Day, because she was there in the crowd… She stood there, watching Katniss break to pieces and bits, growing more and more hysterical after every death. She was a girl back then, so you expect her to be frightened by it all, but no, she found it all wonderful. She even smiled at it all. She was satisfied that Katniss got her punishment for starting the rebellion and killing her father.

All of the Mentors are now perched on their chairs beside the escorts, some new, some old. In some Districts, it is sunny and a beautiful day. Whereas in other Districts its a drizzling, wet day with foggy clouds over the sky.

Thorns nods, contented now to see there is no commotion whatsoever. It's all being under control. Last year had been an extremely stressful year for her, due to having no Victor. She doubtlessly hated being the President last year…

The children, slowly filling up the square in each Districts, have different facial expressions – some were excited, some anxious, some fearful, some impassive. A smile graces Thorns' face, a tide of pleasure courses through her veins.

The next 24 tributes are going to go through absolute_ hell_…

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Hello fanfictioners! I know, this chapter was pretty boring, but I had to include this because it reveals who the new Head Gamemaker is, and what happened to the Victors. And yes, Johanna, Finnick, Haymitch, Katniss and others are mentoring ;P After this chapter the Reapings will begin! Are you excited?

If you don't have a tribute and still want to submit, feel free to mention it in a review, or PM me (I love chatting). And I'll give you the super amazing form. ;) There are only two male spots left: District Eight male and District Eleven male. I'm still waiting for some reserved tributes, so we'll see how it goes.

Here are the first two Sponsor Questions (created by the awesome me), remember what I said about some chapters will have two questions, and others won't. You will have to answer the questions so I know what you think of the story and the characters, and to let me know who is reading and who isn't. If you don't review, then how would I know if you read the story? And if you don't read the story, then I'm unfortunately will have to kill them, even if I love them :/ Sorry, but it's fair for who do read. It's just a warning, okay (: One last thing, thanks for all of the reviews, alerts and favourites! It always makes me so happy when a new review is posted ^.^

**Q1**: Which are your top three favourite Districts?

**Q2**: If you were a Gamemaker, what job aspect would you like to have, and why? (Like for example: I would like to be the Mutations Head Gamemaker, because I'm obsessed with monsters.)


	3. District One & District Two

**I introduce you all Alpha submitted by goldie031, Quarl by SafeEyesOpen, Savannah by Fuzzycat901, and Quintus by stareyed in LA.**

* * *

**District One**

**Alpha Wild, 15**

There is a clatter of metal on metal, a whistle of spears striking the air, and the clamour of voices as Alpha Wild enters the Training Academy. The room is large, the floor polished until it gleam like marble, the walls painted white, giving it an appearance of a science lab. The light bulbs hovering overhead cast off bright illumination that light up even the furthest corners. The Training Academy is larger than this: this is just the training hall; there are also classrooms for the lessons above the hall. And usually, there is space in the hall due to its size, but today it is filled in every metre. Not surprising because it is the Reaping Day today…

Alpha strides in – her high heels clanking on the hard floor, and instantly receives the attention of the nearby trainers. Her hand reaches up to give a wave of greeting to everybody who meets her eyes.

"Hey, Alpha!" A girl with platinum blonde hair waves vulgarly in her direction.

"Alpha, how are you," a boy with green, mossy eyes says in a sultry voice. Alpha giggles and winks at him.

"Alpha!" another girl greets me in a shrill, "I thought you were never going to come."

"Sorry, I woke up so, so late this morning," she replies, giving an apologetic shrug. "My mum didn't wake me up."

"You need to get an alarm," another girl says jokingly.

Alpha laughs, shaking her head, the light blonde tendrils of hair cascading over her forehead. "Yes, I know. I'm awful with mornings—"

A sharp sound of snapping fingers resound throughout the hall, bouncing off the walls and sending a jarring sound to her ears. She winces at the noise and cranes her neck to see the Head Trainer, Gem Stone. She stands tall and mighty on a block created for a jumping-over obstacle. Gem Stone is the coldest and most vicious woman Alpha knew. No wonder why she is the Head Trainer.

"Silence!" she shrills in a clear, audible voice. At the sound of her voice, the last threads of chattering die out and silence relapses. "Thank you. Now that I have your attention, you are all permitted to your age groups now."

Alpha watches her silently as she walks over to the eighteen years old group. The way she walks is lithe and graceful, as if she is a panther. Her long, flowing brown hair cascades swiftly over her shoulders, her eyes sharp and narrow.

"Alpha, come on, let's go." Alpha glances towards her gaggle of friends, most of which are her age. Smiling, she walks towards them, interlocking her arms through theirs and they head to the fifteen years old group. _I'm only fifteen years old,_ she thinks to reassure herself, the nerves jumping into her throat, _So I won't get chosen._

The Trainer in head of Alpha's year is standing in the centre, his shoulders bulky and muscular. His name is Brilliance Jones, and he has a blunt, matter-of-fact manner. Right this moment, he scans the circle that has formed around him, his blue eyes raking across their features. "Right, I'm going to call out names that are chosen to volunteer for the Games this year in no particular order. It will only be four of you as you are not eighteen years old yet."

Alpha bites down onto her bottom lip. _I won't be chosen_, she reminds herself. The only reason why she goes to the Training Academy is that if she ever got reaped and nobody volunteered for her place, she would still go into the Games prepared, also her friends go this Academy and they always gush on the gossip at this school, so she couldn't miss out.

Brilliance begins in his grave voice, "Jasper Lock."

A boy opposite cheers, throwing his fist out into mid-air as his friends all surround him to applaud him. He is indeed pleased…

Brilliance rolls his eyes at the cheering. "Shush, shush. You still haven't won the race. I'd cheer later after I got the tribute place." Jasper drops his fist to his side, scowling. "Diamond Matthews." All eyes swivel, following Brilliance's gaze, to the tallest, most muscular boy in the crowd. Diamond. He stares back at the faces with an impassive expression.

"Alpha Wild."

She gives a loud gasp, swinging her gaze back to the Trainer as he cracks a little smile at her. She's…chosen? But, she doesn't even want to volunteer for the Games…

"And Fern Goldsworthy." Brilliance pauses before continuing, "You four will have to join in the race to the stage, no matter what. If you don't, you'll be kicked out of the Training Academy. If you do win the race, then we all will applaud you and wish you get the Victor crown. Remember the glory, fame and luxury you would receive if you enter the Games. Goodbye and good luck."

She has to join in the race. She got _no_ choice. Alpha grits her teeth, inhaling through her nostrils. Her friends gather around her, cheering and whooping, there are different combinations of emotions flickering across their faces: envy, relief, glee and resentment. If her friends wanted to join in the race, why didn't Brilliance choose them? He knows how she doesn't share the delight others feel whilst watching the Hunger Games, instead she'd just grimace at it all: it disgusted her. However, she doesn't _hate_ the Hunger Games, neither does she _love_ it. She's just indifferent to it mostly…

"Alpha, are you alright?" one of the friends asks Alpha in a soft, gentle tone. However, Alpha ignores her, shoving her way through the crowd and half-running, half-walking to the double doors leading to the fresh air outside. There are surprised shouts calling out her name, but she doesn't dare turn around.

Once she is in the fresh air, she inhales and exhales heavily. The sky is a clear blue, like an unsettled, shallow ocean. There is the occasional sing-song of birds calling out, and the clamour of voices shouting out in the buildings opposite the hall. Despite the serenity of the scene, hairs stand straight up on the back of her neck like they are static when she feels the eyes of somebody on her unguarded back.

She whirls around, blonde hair flying. But immediately she laughs in relief when she catches glimpse of her best friend, Omega, standing next to the double doors with her arms wrapped around a bunch of heavy books. She frowns when she meets Alpha's eyes. Her brown, frizzy hair frames her pale face; her eyes are dull and brown in the light.

"Are you okay?" Omega asks, her voice tentative and nervous. She brushes away her loose, wispy strands from her eyes.

"I'm fine," Alpha says, attempting to make her voice strong, however her voice squeaks out like a mouse. She flinches at the sound.

"No, you're not," Omega says in a concerned voice. The girl steps nearer to Alpha, smiling softly. "What is the matter? Did something happen?"

Alpha chews onto her bottom lip, uncertain and undecided. If Omega knows she would be even more worried about Alpha, considering they are also twin sisters. Often, when they tell people that they were twins, people would blatantly assume they were lying due to their features being so prominently different. Omega has brown hair with wispy ends and brown eyes behind chunky glasses. Meanwhile, Alpha Wild has wavy, blonde hair, tanned skin due to the amount of time she spends outside and vivid, blue eyes. Also, their personalities are the exact opposites as well: Omega is a shy, intelligent and timid person; Alpha is an energetic, sporty and loud person. Alpha likes being the centre of attention, whilst Omega prefers her own company.

"Alpha, you can tell me," she whispers, still frowning. She reaches her hand over to her twin sister, rubbing Alpha's arm gently with her cold fingertips, causing Goosebumps to rise.

She's _right_. Alpha can tell her. Anyway, she would tell her eventually, because she always tells her practically everything. Before mustering words, she swallows to get rid of the lump forming in her throat, "I got chosen to join in the race for the Reaping…"

Omega hesitates as she soaks in the words like they're made of hard steel. "Well, that's still alright… You don't have to win the race. You don't have to run as fast as you can, there are plenty of others who are faster than you and want the tribute spot more than you. It's nothing to worry about."

Alpha's cheeks twitch as she thinks over the words, the lump that swelled in her throat subsides slowly when she realises that Omega is exactly right. She's right as per usual. "Omega, you're so right. What the hell am I fussing over? There are eighteen years olds who are determined to get into the Games; they'll win the race."

Omega smiles, eyes soft. "Let go home, your parents are hoping to see you before we go to the Reaping."

…

Once they enter the house, there is a loud buzz of voices discussing in urgent, foreign languages. The house is small, but there is a hint of luxury in it; the walls are painted a rich colour of cream, the tables and desks are polished and carved in at the brims, the light from glass chandeliers illuminate the rooms. It is not the exact same luxury that the richest citizens in District One have, but what they have is what they're happy with. They don't brag about it all, because with Alpha's family appearances don't matter, it's intelligence that does matter. Her parents are extremely clever and they try to maintain using all the languages they learnt and know. They are the typical District One citizens due to their obsession with foreign languages; they believe it is right to know different languages and they try to educate their children. So far, Alpha know Latin and Spanish. Omega knows more than her, though, due to her eagerness to know more.

Their mother, Alina, strides out of the kitchen, her wispy, light blonde hair streaming through the air behind her shoulders as she sprouts out a string of words in an unknown language. Behind her, follows the father, Jerien, his bulky frame towering ominously over his wife. They seem to be in an intense debate, probably over the usual little things they like to muse over.

"Ah, it's Omega and Alpha," Alina instantly switches to the English language when her gaze falls onto the girls. She approaches them to greet them, her arms wide open. She embraces the daughters in her sweeping arms. Jerien walks over to join them; he is extremely tall but has a genuine soft side to him. Their father used to be a trainer at one of the Training Academies; however he stopped when he lost interest in it.

"Al!" Lambda trots down the stairs, she rams straight into Alpha. "Theta and Epsilon are picking on me," she whines.

Alpha knees down until she is at the same level as Lambda. "Ignore them. They'll eventually get bored of trying to annoy you if you don't pay any attention." Alpha grins at the girl, patting her chubby cheek. "Anyway, time for me to get dressed."

Jerien sighs and rolls his eyes derisively. "Don't take too long, Al."

"I'll try my best!" the girl calls back as she ascends the stairs in a lightning pace. Alpha was a sporty teenager, but she is still a girl who loves the colour pink and being pampered. Dresses of the light shades of pink mean the world to her. Fashion was everything to her, without it she would be lost.

In her room, she pries open the wardrobe and almost burst out laughing at the sight of over-flowing dresses and clothes inside the wooden wardrobe, the hems of the dresses are brimming over the edge. And for the next hour, she fumbles her way through, until she selects a red dress to wear for the Reaping. She'll look stunning; it's a shame that she won't be the one in the spotlight.

…

There are banners sprawled across the front of the shops and homes belonging to the 'upper' families in the square. On several of them reveal pictures of Trainees hoping to win the race today. Alpha exhales a sigh of relief when she doesn't glimpse a picture of her.

"I wonder who is going to win the race today…" one of Alpha friends muses aloud. Alpha is in the long and endless queue for the registering amongst her friends and Omega.

"Well, it's going to be Alpha, of course!" another friend says in response as if it's obvious.

"Oh yeah." The other giggles. She pats Alpha on the shoulder. "You're gonna win this, girl."

"Do you really think so?" Alpha asks curiously, just to see what they'd say.

"Of course! You're one of the best," they say in a chorus. Alpha bites her bottom lip to stop herself from reminding them she is only _fifteen years old_. Usually, the volunteers in District One are eighteen, because there are more eighteen year olds chosen to join in the race. Alpha is getting increasingly nervous for the Reaping. She has a bad feeling about this…

"Are you okay?" Omega asks her, worried.

She nods in response. "I'm absolutely fine," she lies. She doesn't want to get Omega worried for her. But she just can't stop thinking about what if her own twin sister was reaped… How would she react? Would she run harder in the race? What would she do?

_No, no, Alpha, now you're being silly,_ she thinks, calming herself down.

Alpha winces slightly as she has her finger pricked, she links her arm through Omega's as they stroll through the crowds towards the fifteen years old section together. There are a lot of familiar faces in the crowd, Alpha is popular and she knows a lot of people. All she can think is which one it would be to be their new tributes…

* * *

**Quarl Agate, 18**

It was a beautiful day, the perfect weather for the Reaping in a District like this. The sun is shining like an orange orb of flames, the sky is serene and clear without a trace of a cloud, and the breeze is cool and gentle as it blows the debris down the streets. It's perfect, just like what District One would want for the celebration today.

However, Quarl isn't in a celebrating mood. He's waiting. He's all alone in the kitchen, his feet tapping the hard tiles on the ground relentlessly, impatient. The doorbell rings, the sound resounding through the silent house. Quarl winces at the shrill sound, but gradually pulls himself up off the stool at the kitchen counter and strides through the door and down the empty corridor. On his way to the front door, he passes a mirror and takes a moment to smooth down his pale blonde hair, the locks reaching down to his icy blue eyes.

At the door, he inhales momentarily, feeling nervous before opening the door.

Standing outside was his mother. She towers over him on her three inches high heels, a pair of dark sunglasses covering her eyes, her perfectly curled, dark hair tousles down over her shoulders. And behind her leans in a Capitol man, his hair a dyed ginger.

"I'll miss you, babes," the man whispers into Opal's ear, but he purposefully makes his voice audible enough for Quarl to hear. "Make sure you come back this weekend."

Opal, Quarl's young mother, simply doesn't answer. She just plants a small kiss onto the man's nose and flashes him a beautiful smile of hers. And with that, she marches in without saying a word to the Capitol man. Quarl doesn't move even after Opal calls him, he glares with such hatred at the man who is a complete stranger to him. All of them are strangers to him. And they're all the same. Disgusting, vile and utterly stupid. The man raises an eyebrow at Quarl, apparently confused at his attitude, before stumbling down the stairs and trotting back into his black limo.

"Quarl, just come in, please," there is a begging note in Opal's voice. Quarl slowly obeys her and shuts the door, the anger boiling up inside him.

"Mum, you need to stop being with these men, they're revolting," Quarl angrily mutters behind his mother as he follows her into the kitchen. She sighs at him over her shoulder before taking off her sunglasses. Quarl's mother is a beautiful, young woman with the most stunning features that she inherited from her family who are all known for their beauty.

"Dear, you know I can't help it," Opal replies. As she stands there at the counter she appears to be so frail and harmless, but Quarl knows more. Since the death of Quarl's father and when Opal began seeing these kinds of men, Opal increasingly became cold and emotionless. Quarl was only two years old when his father died, so he had absolutely no vivid memory of him. All he knows about his father was that Quarl himself was just like him.

At the thought of his father, Quarl grits his teeth. He doesn't like thinking about his own father, it makes him feel kind of out of place. So, due to his mood, his voice comes out harsh like a whip snapping, "Everybody thinks you're a slut, because of these men."

Opal swirls around, her eyes flaring like a pit of ice. "How dare you say that."

Quarl doesn't say anything for a moment. Gradually, he realises his mistake – he allowed his heart to take control of his words. He didn't think for a second. Mentally, he hits himself for being a douche. He's often like this with others, he's always blurting out his thoughts before thinking what pain he conflicts.

"Sorry, I didn't mean it—"

"Stop it!" Opal snaps, sounding exhausted. "You know the truth more than anybody else."

Quarl steps forward tentatively. "Let me help you to be free."

"And how are you going to do that?" Opal asks feebly, she cranes her neck to meet Quarl's eyes. There is sorrow in her eyes. "I'll never be free."

"Is everything okay?"

Quarl practically jumps out of his skin at the sound of the familiar voice from right behind him. He turns to come face-to-face with his best friend Tabby. She's rubbing her eyes wearily; the dark marks underneath her eyes are almost as dark as the bluish bruises on her arms. Quarl senses a mixture of giddiness and anger at the sight of her, the anger he knows is directed at Tabby's father because he is the main cause behind her bruises. Tabby doesn't live here, but she comes to stay for the night occasionally when her father gets drunk and abuses her.

Opal glances at Quarl and sighs when he doesn't make an effort to reply to Tabby, so she musters up the words. "Yes, everything is fine, dear. Anyway, I have to go and get dressed for the Reaping." She smiles in greeting at Tabby before she departs from the room in silence.

Quarl glances down at Tabby's clothing. She's wearing rustled clothes, but they're still okay for the Reaping. Quarl is strangely looking forward to the Reaping, but he knows that Tabby blatantly hates the Games. Tabby grins sleepily when Quarl slides his eyes up to her gorgeous amber eyes. Those pair of eyes is the eyes that Quarl longs to just stare at for hours and hours on end. Suddenly, Tabby reaches out and clutches at Quarl. Shivers ripple throughout him at the touch and a funny, odd sensation swells up inside his stomach.

It confuses him how he always feels around Tabby.

"Are you volunteering?" she asks.

Quarl studies her facial expression, trying to seek out any thoughts on it. He only comes up with dread. He doesn't want to let her down by telling the truth, but it's best to tell her or she would face the consequences of watching him race to the stage and feel the shock. "Yes."

"_Why?_"

"It's the only way…to free you and Mum. I know I'm already rich, but that is not enough to stop my mother being the Capitol's sex slave. Also, I want us to get a Victor house with lots of bedrooms and I'd have the power to take you away from your father. It's the only way," Quarl concludes.

Tears slowly brim in Tabby's cat-like eyes as she gazes admirably at her best friend. "You'd risk your own life for _me_?"

"Of course," Quarl murmurs as he cups her cheek in his palm. Her skin is so smooth he'd loved to brush his fingertips along her jaw, nose and cheeks, and just smell her. He suddenly shakes away his thoughts, feeling shocked to having thought them, and he allows his hand to drop to his side. Tabby looks mildly disappointed when he drops his hand. Quarl gulps nervously. He's never nervous, except when awkward moments like this occur with Tabby.

Quarl's mother re-enters the room and just looks at them for a moment. Eventually, she says, "Let's go."

…

Quarl glances over the heads of the other boys in the eighteen years old section. He'd his finger pricked and didn't even wince, whereas Tabby squealed in slight pain when she had hers done. And now he's waiting for the wretched Treaty of Treason speech to end and for the Reaping to just continue. Most of the boys in his section are all at the front, rounding their bulky shoulders and clenching their fists, blatantly preparing themselves. But Quarl is the most impatient.

He's disgusted by the other boys. All they want is the glory and fame in the Games. Meanwhile, Quarl needs to be in the Games to become the Victor and gain power. It's not the money he needs, it's just the power. He knows how powerful the Victors are in District One, so if he's one of them, he'll be able to keep Tabby and Opal safe.

"You're going to lose this race," a thin boy behind Quarl snarls menacingly into his ear. Quarl lets out a laugh, intending to play with the boy's nerves and make him believe that he's not frightened.

"Oh really? I bet you can't even lift up a feather, not to mention you'll be run over by somebody," Quarl snaps back. The skinny boy trembles for a moment, as if terrified or just plain angry. However, before he can muster up a retort, the escort confidently strides onto the stage to replace the mayor's place.

"Hello, ladies and gentlemen!" the man shouts out in his ridiculously squeaky Capitol accent. The man is obviously the most ordinary looking escort, due to his usual blue suits and pale blue ties, but he's average. His name is Glide Templesworth, and all we know about him so far is that he's overly obsessed with the Hunger Games. "It's a shame we didn't have a Victor last year!"

A deadly silence answers him. The knowledge that we didn't win last win welcomes an invaded sense of shame and embarrassment in District One, neither does the fact that there wasn't even a Victor last year.

"_But_ hopefully we'll get our Victor this year!" Suddenly the crowd erupts into cheers and shouts of joy. Glide grins gleefully at our reactions. "Oh, I love you District One!"

There are several of people in the audience throwing _roses_ onto the stage in response to that. Quarl rolls his eyes.

"Now, let's see who the reaped girl is…and who the volunteer is," Glide calls out before winking secretly at the audience. District One always have a volunteer every year, but due to years of experience, they've learnt to wait patiently and hear the name and wait for the escort to call out for any volunteers, and the race begins. Glide quickly dips his hand into the bowl and reads it out in fluid pace, "Omega Wild!"

There is a loud gasp and everybody turn to watch as a girl with blonde hair in the fifteen years old section struggle to get to the reaped girl, her arms flailing around as she watches the other girl walk up to the stage.

Glide shakes the reaped girl's hand. "Now, are there any volunteers?"

And the race begins.

There are screams and shrieks as girls in their own sections all race for the stage, trying to outrun others. But there is only one person who is far ahead. She is the girl who was trying to get to the reaped girl, her fair blonde hair cascading and flowing behind her shoulders in the breeze. She is lightning quick on her feet and eventually ascends the stairs first and yells out in a clear voice, "I volunteer!"

Glide grins at the girl, shaking her hand. "And what is your name?"

"Alpha Wild," the blonde manages to gasp between heavy pants.

"Ah, so are you the sister of Omega?"

Alpha nods, her eyes flicking to her sister. There is a protective look in them.

"Did you not want your sister to take all of the glory?" Glide asks amusingly. Quarl roll his eyes. _These Capitol people are so stupid, and yet they think they know everything._

Alpha snaps her head towards Glide. She opens her mouth to say something, but it seems that she's in a battle with herself. "Maybe," is all she says in the end.

"Now, shall we see who our male tribute is?" Glide inquires as he walks over to the other bowl. He quickly removes one of the pieces of paper. He unfurls the paper with such grace that Quarl gives a little scoff. "Diamond Matthews!"

Quarl glances around until his eyes lay onto a six foot, muscular boy around the age of fifteen. The boy walks up to the stage with an impassive expression, he doesn't seem to be fazed at all. Glide shakes his hand rigidly as if afraid.

"Now, who are the volunteers?"

And it begins.

Quarl never imagined what it would be like to be in the race. He never expected it to be such a bumpy ride with other vicious, desperate boys throwing out punches along their way. Quarl can see some boys running unwillingly and knows that some of them had been chosen against their own wills. There are the bigger boys reaching the stairs already and Quarl suddenly feels determination boil up inside him, and he runs harder than ever. His breathing is already laboured, but eventually he joins the others at the stairs. He quickly lashes out and pulls the boys apart, pushing them off the stairs.

He's eighteen years old, and is strong. He deserves to win this.

It was all so quick that when Quarl finds himself alone on the stage, he blinks in shock. He did it.

"Ah, what is your name?" the escort asks him. Quarl looks at him and flashes him a smile.

"My name is Quarl Agate! And I'll give you all a heck of a show!" Quarl calls out proudly. He meets the eyes of the losers below the stage and can only see jealousy in their eyes.

…

It is quiet in the Justice Building and Quarl cannot help but feel dread. He needs to see Tabby and his mother; he has things to remind them. The walls are a rich colour of blood-red, the lights illuminating the corners and every little crack.

The door finally pries open and Opal flies into his arms.

"Oh you silly boy!" she cries out. "Why didn't you tell me you were going to volunteer?"

Guilt swells up in Quarl's throat. He can't believe he forgot. "I'm sorry, I forgot."

"Darling, don't we have enough money and wealth?" Opal asks him sternly. "Isn't it enough?"

"It's not enough, mother," Quarl says modestly. "If I'm a Victor I can free you of sex slaving. I can free you from the Capitol. And I promise I will come back."

Opal's eyes fill up with dense tears, she smiles with pure pride at her son. "I love you, Quarl. I know you can do it. You are as strong as your father."

Quarl winces at the mention of his father. "Thanks."

The door opens once again and a Peacekeeper enters to grab hold of Opal. She squirms in his grasp and shouts out over her shoulder. "Don't trust anyone in the Games. Stay alive!"

Quarl waves a goodbye, apprehension fill up inside him at her words. She's right, he cannot trust anybody. His ears prick up at the sound of the door opening and the soft footsteps entering. Slowly, Tabby slides into his welcoming arms and embraces him.

A fuzzy sensation stirs inside Quarl's stomach and he momentarily feels dizzy. He furtively glances at Tabby as she pulls away. She looks beautiful in the illuminating lights, her light blonde hair curling slightly at the ends. Quarl feels warm whilst watching her.

"I love you," he whispers without even thinking. He gasps and slams his mouth shut. He can't believe he said that out loud, he never even knew he was in love before… However, Tabby gazes at him dreamily, smiling softly.

She leans in slowly, her blonde strands licking at Quarl's cheeks as she plants a tender kiss on his lips. "I love you too, Quarl."

Quarl never felt so happy and light when she says those exact words. He feels like he's floating on the clouds, light in a heavy dose of drugs. The fuzzy sensation in the pit of his stomach grows. He now definitely has to return, so he and Tabby can be together. They grew up together, and they can grow old together only if Quarl returns.

"Tabby, you must know that any romances I have in the Games are going to be only for sponsors. They're not real. It's you who I want. You must remember that," Quarl says.

Tabby nods. "I know. Don't worry, I have trust in you."

Those last words are the words that Quarl branded into his brain. And the words repeat over and over as he says goodbye to Tabby, go outside and go through the crowd of reporters until he is on the train.

* * *

**District Two**

**Quintus Pickman, 18**

The lights in the Training Centre are so bright that the Head Trainer squint his eyes as he whistles for all of the eighteen years old to gather around him. A light breeze works through the large hall, ruffling Quintus' swept back, dark brown hair. Quintus is sweating, his brows moist with the humid heat. He'd been running through an obstacle with over a dozen of targets with red circles, and now all of them have an arrow with a feathered end sticking prominently out. Quintus now straightens his spine and places his bow and arrow on one of the racks before joining the rest of the trainees.

The Head Trainer smiles momentarily at him. Quintus's face remains stoic and empty, however. The Head Trainer never offered him help in the past few years; he only ignored the short, little boy. "Good to see you all here on the Reaping Day. You all know how today is a very important event. Even though the previous year had been unsuccessful due to Caius and Althea dying before even getting to the Final Eight—" Quintus flinches at the mention of Caius and scowls at the raucous laughter from behind him "I'm expecting us to get a Victor this year!"

A round of cheers resounds through the hall, even Quintus smiles lightly.

"Now, you all know that the previous three weeks had been very busy with the 'Games', we have finally come up with our Volunteers," the man bellows out in a grave, stern voice. "Our female Volunteers are going to be…Lena Hardwick, Savannah Kellno and Mercury Fairchild. And our male Volunteers are going to be…Augustus Kern, Apollo Dickerson and Quintus Pickman!"

Quintus' face breaks into a large, slightly eerie Cheshire grin after he hears his own name. All of the 'Volunteers' for this annual Reaping are eighteen year olds, due to the new rule in District Two about the volunteers needing to be eighteen years old, it is encouraged to the younger Trainees that they wait until they're eighteen so they can jump forward and volunteer. And out of hundreds who train and compete with one another for the Games, Quintus is one of the 'Volunteers.'

The Head Trainer dismisses the kids, some of the Trainees go off to train more, cheer for their friends or just leave the building. Quintus doesn't have any friends, not since Caius' death last year. Caius was his best friend and they were so close they were practically brothers.

"We're going to squash you down. There'll be no way you can get to the stage," a familiar, gruff voice whispers into his ear. Quintus gulps nervously; he knows who it is already. He turns slowly around to come literally an inch away from Augustus' greasy face. The bully is averagely six foot tall so he towers ominously over Quintus who is only five foot tall. Quintus tries to stare the other guy down with his hard, dark brown eyes, however the bully simply laughs. "What shall we do with you? Hmm…"

"Let's shut him away in a closet," another voice suggests, eager. Behind Augustus is Theon (the boy who just shouted out), Apollo and Hank. They are all bullies and they picked on Quintus ever since he was eight years old when he first attended the Training Centre. Augustus is obviously the leader of this pack of bullies, and he's as cruel as ever.

"Yes," Augustus says decidedly. He sniffs the air like a savage dog. "In the kitchen, they're cooking eggs. You, Hank, get me an egg. It'd been a long time since we smashed an egg on his head."

Hank's face splits into a wide grin and he runs off to the kitchen. Quintus stares after him distastefully. They should be bullying him, Quintus muses, He's as scrawny as an insect and as ugly as a pug dog.

But of course not, they want to pick on somebody smaller than them. Quintus is not their size and, the cowards they are, they enjoy taking the mick of him for that. If Caius was here, the bullies would leave him alone… However, Caius is dead. He's no longer here, so Quintus has to stand up for himself.

He clenches his fists, intending to throw a punch squarely at Augustus' ugly face. However, Augustus catches his flying fist before it can make contact with his jaw. He laughs down at the smaller boy. "You think you can hurt me, imp?"

"Stop calling me imp!" Quintus protests hopelessly. "And let go of me! Why don't you go and pick on somebody your own size?"

Augustus snarls into his face, "Shut up or I'll push your fucking face into your arse." The other boys let out a raucous chorus of laughter. Augustus smiles smugly at the sound of the laughter. He makes a grab at Quintus, but the smaller and slender boy recoils sharply from his grasp.

Quintus glances around frantically, seeking out any aid from the other Trainees. Unfortunately for him, the others are either busy training or gossiping, although there are a few who are furtively watching them from the corner of their eyes. None of them come forward to help. None of them wants to help Quintus. He's not surprised, because it's always like this – the boys would bully him in public and still not get into trouble. Also, Quintus is a subdued, quiet and lonely boy who makes no effort to get engaged in conversations, so nevertheless he doesn't have friends to defend him.

"Come here, you rat," Apollo growls as he makes a sudden run for Quintus. Quintus blinks in remote surprise as Apollo trips over and goes sprawling across the floor. Laughter echo in the hall as the Trainees gather to form a circle around Apollo to mock him. Augustus and the other bullies get submerged in the crowd, although there are the cries of anger as they try to push through.

Quintus uses this momentary distraction at its advantage and sprints away from the building, and Augustus is too late.

…

Once Quintus reaches his street, he slows his sprint to a slow stroll. He's panting and exhausted after the long run from the Training Centre, the moisture in the air making his skin slick with mild wetness. The weather is not an excellent one, as the blueness of the sky is hidden beyond the grey clouds and there is a damp, humid air to the day. But Quintus doesn't mind. All he is pleased about is that he's one of the 'Volunteers' for the Reaping. He's prepared to take all of his might to outrun Augustus and Apollo, he has to beat them, he has to prove to them he's better than what they view him as.

Quintus halts at the gate leading to his giant house. He peers furtively into the beautiful, colourful garden of his neighbour's, the flowers are tall and vivid in colours, all have been tended with such care and tender. Quintus' heart hammers harder as his eyes lay onto the girl kneeling in front of a flower-bed. The girl cranes her head up as if she heard him, her dark, curly hair gleaming in the dim light, her chocolate-toned skin glistening. She stands up and strolls over to him, the corners of her wide mouth tipped up to grace a beautiful smile.

"Hi, it's not a nice day today, is it?" the girl says in an attempt to strike up a conversation with the shy Quintus.

Quintus glances to the sky and nods, trying to appear casual and airy, however his nod movements are rapid and jerky.

Antonia is completely and utterly oblivious to his strange behaviour as she makes another comment, "Looking forward to the Games?"

Say something! Quintus urges himself. Eventually, he musters up words, "Yes, it's going to be grand. What about you? Excited?"

Antonia shrugs, squinting at her flowers. "Well, not really, I want to stay home and do gardening." She laughs. "I'm so anti-social!"

Quintus beams brightly. "I'm just the same."

Antonia blinks. "You garden as well?"

Oh damn, that's totally not what I meant, Quintus thinks to himself. "No, no. I mean I do like gardening, I just didn't mean that." Quintus bites his nails nervously. Why can't he just be himself around Antonia? "Anyway, I should be heading inside."

"Oh okay," Antonia says, still puzzled. She gives him a small wave, frowning a little. He waves back before ascending the stairs to his house. The house looms above him like a grand mansion and the double doors are hard to open on his own, but he eventually gets inside.

"I'm home!" he calls out and runs up the stairs. There is no response, of course, so Quintus heads straight for his bedroom. His bedroom is reasonably big and okay, but it is his haven, it's where he always go when he prefers his own company and to read.

He quickly fumbles his way in the dresser and eventually come across a simple, dark shirt and black trousers. He plucks black, polished shoes up off the floor and slips them on carefully. Everything he does is done with precise. He needs to look smart and perhaps attractive on the Reaping Day if he desires to volunteer, so the audience in the grand Capitol would consider sponsoring him throughout the Games. He acknowledges that he cannot survive without sponsors, so he's going to do his best to reel in at least a couple. Although, he'll probably be luckier than the outer Districts, because he is in one of the Capitol's favourite Districts. Here, the 'Volunteers' are known as 'Careers' in most of the poorer Districts, such as District Twelve.

When Quintus' eyes lay onto the oak bedside table, he bites his bottom lip. On the table is a picture frame of his mother, her dark hair slick against her square jaw, her eyes stern and narrow. She is wearing a Peacekeeper uniform, the collar terse and stiff against her white throat. Quintus senses a strange stirring of emotions deep inside him. He has mixed thoughts about his mother, like he has with the Hunger Games. Whenever he looks at the picture, he always thinks, Why did you leave me?

His mother was a Peacekeeper-in-training, training to own up to the family traditional lifestyle, when she suddenly fell pregnant with the baby of a fellow Peacekeeper-in-training. When Quintus was born, his mother, Daria, handed him over to his grandparents so they could look after him, allowing Daria to continue with her training. It was her dream, Quintus' grandmother says, It was her role in life. She tried to be a mother, but didn't succeed.

And then, Daria was suddenly sent off to District Four to be a Peacekeeper, following the family's ways. She left Quintus with his grandparents, and he rarely ever sees her. It is like she vanished from his life.

However, his mother tries to stay in his life by sending him letters and photos of her new life, pieces and bobs of seaweed, sea glass, driftwood and shells. They are all beautiful. Ever since he had the first collection of letters, shells and driftwood he carried them to this exact bedside table. It is an area of everything he keeps of his mother, every little memory, and every little piece of her.

Quintus almost feels guilty for giving up on his Peacekeeper training and replacing it for the Games. But he needs to prove himself to his bullies, to prove to everybody that he's as strong and worthy as they are despite his measly height. It's his only goal in life. If he doesn't volunteer, he'll just lose everything. He'll lose his chance of getting with Antonia, facing his bullies and watching them squirm in fear, and listen to his grandfather's praises.

…

"Ah, Quintus, here you are."

Quintus hears the familiar voice and swallows anxiously. His grandfather sits in his large, wooden chair resembling a throne, his face is weathered and beaten, lines of age and exhaustion adorn his eyes and mouth. Quintus slides his gaze over his grandfather with a mixture of fondness and unhappiness. Whatever his grandfather, Darius, wants, it is not good.

"You have a bruise on your face," Darius mutters disapprovingly. He rolls his eyes and pats the stool beside his chair/throne. "Come and sit here. Stop standing there and gawking at me, it's rude."

"Sorry," replies Quintus. He obeys his grandfather and sits beside him.

"When did you get your bruise from?" Darius demands to know.

Quintus hesitates, but eventually relents. "Yesterday." He reaches up and delicately touches his bruise along his right eyebrow carefully. The skin there is throbbing in mild pain, the colour of the bruise is a deep shade of purple. Those assholes.

"How did you get it? And please don't tell me it's those boys again, or you tripping over again."

"Well…it was them again," says Quintus hesitantly. He bites the inside of his mouth and instantly winces in pain when a sharp pang of pain spreads and a metallic, salty taste fill his mouth. "I tried to fight back, but there was too many…"

Quintus has a begging note in his voice, but it is apparently not enough for Darius as he sighs scornfully. "You need strength and then these boys will leave you alone. Even if you're unusually short for a boy your age, you can be strong and fight back. I don't care whatever excuse you have, but it's not enough. If you're going to have to carry the family's traditional lifestyle, you'll have to learn how to be brave and mighty."

"Grandfather—" Quintus begins desperately.

"Remember, son, there is no place for weakness in District Two," Darius murmurs thoughtfully. Quintus removes his eyes from his grandfather's shortly cropped, grey hair which gives a military flair, and lowers his eyes down to the floor. It is countless that he'd failed his grandfather.

"Darius, be nice to Q, you're hurting his feelings." Quintus looks up and beams at his grandmother. She's around Quintus' height so he obviously got that characteristic feature from her. Sylvia is a humble, sweet and caring person. She is always looking out for others, especially Quintus as they are extremely close, and is not as cold as other people raised in military.

"Hello, sweetheart. You're looking charming in that," Sylvia observes. Quintus glances down at his dark, plain shirt which helps to bring out the dark shade of Quintus' eyes. If he looks 'charming' would Antonia feel impressed? The merest thought of Antonia being attracted to him gives jitters of joy down Quintus' spine.

"Thanks, Grandma," Quintus replies, in a polite but appreciated manner.

"I mean it, darling, you do look charming. You'll get sponsors, I know it," Sylvia comments. She walks across the room and cups Quintus' face in her warm palms, her eyes sparkle with such pride that Quintus' eyes burn with threatening tears. "Just make sure you'll survive and return, okay?"

"I will," says Quintus with a sheer force of determination, "I will. I know I can do it."

* * *

**Savannah Kellno, 18**

There is a loud clicking noise in the kitchen as Savannah furiously chops away at the raw potatoes she has left over. Her platinum blonde hair gives her a heavy shroud over her freckled face, concealing her blue eyes. She can feel a stirring bubble of fury rising inside her like a dense cloud of steam drifting off into the midst of the sky.

"And I said, 'Oh, I'm sorry, but I don't think you got the right person, although I do look a lot like Julius Templesmith,'" Savannah's husband drones on, oblivious to her jerky, angry moments. "It's rather funny how some people say that I should replace Julius Templesmith and be the interviewer! I always knew I was better than Julius, but hearing others say it to me is rather nice."

Oh, why don't you shut the heck up about yourself? Savannah thinks. She ignores the rest of what her husband, Liam, says and continues with chopping the potatoes into tiny, square cubes. Eventually, she drops them all into a large pot of steaming brown liquid. She watches for a second as the cubes float around in the grey, metal pot. A tide of worry washes over her as she remembers the problem she is getting with food currently; in a few years time they'll run out along with the measly amount of money. Although, Savannah knows they are lucky that they are not as poor as the other families around. In District Two, life is as polished as it is in District One, many families in this District are snatching pennies from their tables for food and some pick-pocket for money. Savannah lives in a nice place, but it is slowly falling apart. The roof needs to be mended (and Liam can't be bothered to mend it himself), the walls needs painting again, several of the light bulbs have gone out, the couches have tattered holes in them and the twins need their own beds.

If only Savannah's family would be aware of her own presence then they would lent over some money.

Savannah grew up in a better lifestyle, her family had enough money and food on the table, their house was not falling apart. Savannah was part of a large family and she was the second youngest of the siblings. She has six brothers – all are gone from her life and living their own – and five sisters. She always felt like she was the baby of the family until Sam was born, the only close sibling she had was Jordan. She and Jordan went to the Training Centre their parents owned together as they grew up; they confided in each other, they were there for each other. Life was almost perfect for Savannah when she turned fourteen and one morning chaos began in her life. One of her numerous sisters went missing, her name was Lyra. She disappeared one night and never returned. She didn't even leave a note saying where she went and why.

Savannah is not convinced that Lyra is dead; because she has a tingling sensation she is out there somewhere, in one of the other Districts. However, her father believes she is dead, whereas Savannah's mother never gave up; she still sits by the telephone in their house at night. Lyra's disappearance has led Savannah's mother into a deep depression, so all she does nowadays is sit by the phone, knit to make jumpers or watch her grandchildren play.

The grandchildren are the only reasons why Savannah's parents still visit them. Her father is disappointed in her and wishes she never met Liam. Savannah was only fifteen when she met Liam, and she fell in love. Liam was kind towards her, she could tell him everything. They had a lot of fun together; it was all like a game to them at first. But then she fell heavily pregnant when she turned sixteen. Savannah didn't go to Liam first, she went to Jordan, and unfortunately Jordan reacted in a bad way and told her parents. And the parents were not pleased, especially the father, so they kicked Savannah out of their house. She had no choice but move in with Liam who had his own apartment. And then they married, due to what her father demanded.

Things were alright for a while between them, although they didn't trust each other as much as before. Liam resented Savannah for making him a father so early in life (he was the same age as her), but he treated her well and helped her.

When the twins were born, Liam and Savannah split up due to the stress, but Savannah stayed with him in his apartment because she had nowhere else to go and they never divorced. The twins are called Rosie and Casey.

On cue, the door swings open and in flies Casey and Rosie, their little squirming frames wiggling across the floor as they chase after the other. Savannah gazes lovingly at her two, growing girls. They can walk almost perfectly now, however they still like to crawl at the age of two, and they just beginning to learn how to talk. They are twins, but they are not identical so it is easy to distinguish between them. Rosie is the one who is growing the fastest; she looks more like Savannah with the big eyes and hair, and she is confident for a toddler. Meanwhile Casey is very shy and is often in her own world, she looks like her father, Liam, with the dark hair and vibrant green eyes.

Rosie suddenly halts in her chase after Casey and sniffs the air delicately. She gurgles, "Mumma, food, huny."

"Oh," Savannah says, laughing, "are you hungry? Food is going to be ready soon, dear."

Casey cries out that she wants food as well, and Savannah lets out a laugh. She gazes at her girls' gleaming hair, the sunlight streaking through their wispy strands. Casey's eyes are as green and vivid as fresh grass, and Rosie's are like the clear water of an ocean, just like Savannah's.

She will do anything for her children. That is why she is going to risk her own life for them in the Hunger Games; she doesn't want them to grow up in this kind of lifestyle, she wants them to have a healthy and happy childhood. And she will do anything dangerous or reckless just for that.

…

There are cheering crowds heading to the square, carrying heavy banners celebrating the Games. Savannah peers around her as she tugs along Rosie and Casey. At one pub on their way, there are drunken men bellowing out curses and praises on the Games, many of them are Victors. As they pass the pub, Savannah presses her hands over Rosie and Casey's ears to block out the nasty words that are flowing out from the pub.

These men are a disgrace, Savannah thinks scornfully. She picks up the heavy twins and grunts as she carries them quickly through the throngs of cheering people to the square, trailing after her is Liam with his bunch of friends.

As they draw closer to the centre of the District, they pass by the wealthy houses. In these houses are families with no issues resolving around money and food, and Savannah resents them for that. She shouldn't resent them as she knows they must've worked hard to earn all of the money, but she just can't help. She was once one of them…

Suddenly, she halts when she comes across her own old home. The house is large with rich, beautifully weaved curtains in the windows, it still appears to be on the rich side despite the peeling paint on the walls and doors. Savannah and Liam wait patiently until the old couple approach them from the house, the woman looking weary and exhausted, and the bags beneath her eyes are heavy and dark.

"Hello, mother, father," Savannah greets them politely. Her father unsurprisingly ignores her as he picks up Rosie, and her mother takes Casey away. "Thanks for this. It's just me and Liam can't look after them during the Reaping."

"Yes, of course, because you're only eighteen years old," her father replies and he doesn't even try to push out the loath in his voice. Savannah sighs and ignores his comment. If he is going to treat her the way he does, she'll return it herself.

Her parents slow them down on their way to the Reaping, but eventually they get there in time. Liam turns to Savannah's parents and children before saying, "Be good to your grandparents, Rosie, Casey, okay?"

The girls squeals when Liam tickles them, and say in unison, "Yes, Daddy!"

Savannah smiles at Liam. It's rare that Liam shows this side to him, as he's mostly too busy obsessing over himself. Liam walks along with his wife; he meets her eyes briefly, his green irises as bright as ever. "Are you nervous?"

"No, because I know it's going to be…okay."

…

After the finger-pricking and the mayor's raucous speech, Savannah is finally in her section. She is amongst other eighteen years old, but only three are at the front of the roped area and that is her, Mercury and Lena. They are the three 'Volunteers', and all are driven by determination.

Lena tosses her beautiful, ebony black hair behind her slender shoulder before darting a menacing look at Savannah and Mercury. She is a wealthy girl who has everything, and Savannah knows she only wants to go into the Games for the fame. Whereas, Mercury wants to be a tribute so she can experience the horrific glory and kill the victims. Like Savannah, Mercury doesn't have any friends, although that is because Mercury hates people, and people look down on Savannah because she had children at age sixteen. If Mercury didn't hate people, she would probably be popular, because District Two is the perfect home for psychopaths.

A click-clanking of five inches high heels stride boldly across the stage, and the escort named Rosa James glares fiercely down at the audience. Savannah hates the woman, because Rosa is a downright bitch.

Rosa's fiery, red hair swirls wildly in the hard wind like it is made of flames, the strands curly like corkscrews. She is dressed in a tight, black jumpsuit, making her look yet fiercer. She also has very gaunt cheekbones and twiggy fingers that she looks like a skeleton. Despite her frail-looking body, her composure is bold and intimidating. "District Two, I introduce you to the 98th Hunger Games!"

A loud burst of cheers, half-maddened by thirst, erupts across the square, even Savannah claps. The District loves the Games, even after last year's disaster. Savannah is not really bothered with the Hunger Games; she is just going in and doing her best to give the Capitol a show.

"Let's do the male this time," says Rosa matter-of-factly. She strides briskly with an air of professional towards the male glass bowl. Just before she dips her hand in, a boy lurches out from the eighteen years old boys section.

Savannah blinks at the boy, surely he's not eighteen? The boy is incredibly short for and eighteen years old, however he runs for the stage from that section with a manner of certainty in his long stride that he must be eighteen. There is a furious cry behind him as two bigger lads sprint after him, apparently trying to over-take the boy.

"I volunteer! I volunteer!" the boy repeats aloud, desperate. He pants as he ascends the stairs quickly, still shouting out the same words over and over again.

"Alright, enough," Rosa snaps impatiently, obviously disturbed by the boy's shouting. "What is your name?"

"Quintus Pickman," the boy replies.

"Ah," Savannah whispers inwardly. She knows him. And now he does look familiar with his dark brown hair and slender, lean figure. She has seen him around in the Training Centre and knows that he's a bully victim of the giant Augustus. A stirring of pity swells inside her. How would he even survive in the Games? He looks like a twelve years old kid.

"I introduce you all your male tribute, Quintus Pickman!" Rosa cries out as she raises Quintus' hand high into the air. There is a scattered applaud in the audience. Apparently, some people share the same thoughts as Savannah. "Now the female."

Without helping herself, Savannah shoves past Lena and Mercury, ignoring their outraged cried and running footsteps, and she climbs up the stairs in a sprint. She breathes a heavy exhale of relief when she finds herself the first on the stage. "I, Savannah Kellno, volunteer as tribute!"

Rosa James briskly grabs her hand and raises it into the air, declaring her the new female tribute for District Two. Savannah beams the biggest smile ever.

…

Her parents, along with the children and Liam, are the first to visit her in the Justice Building. And Liam is outraged.

"HOW DARE YOU PLAN TO VOLUNTEER WITHOUT TELLING ME!" he yells angrily. His cheeks are a tomato shade, the veins in his forehead prodding out like it is about to burst.

Savannah sighs. "I was going to tell you, but you only chattered on about yourself."

Liam stares at her, speechless. Thankfully, he remains silent so Savannah turns her full attention onto her children. Rosie and Casey both have confused expressions on their faces.

"Mumma is going?" Rosie asks. Savannah bites her bottom lip, her children are too young to fully understand the Hunger Games, but they do know that she is leaving them. She carefully picks up Rosie and Casey and props them on her knees.

"Yes, darling, I'm going. But only for a couple of weeks. I will return, I promise you." Savannah rubs Rosie's back, trying to convince her and Casey. "I'm just going away to get some more money so we can have a better life."

Her daughters eventually become convinced and they lay their heads against her chest. Savannah looks up to her father. Her father appears to be upset and angry at the same time.

"Dad, can you please ask Hale if she would kindly look after Casey and Rosie?" Savannah asks quietly. "She could just come over to cook for them and Liam, and to see if everything is okay."

"I'll try," her father says. "But why can't Sam look after them? I mean, she lives with you, doesn't she?"

"Sam can't even cook… And you know what she is like; she is irresponsible and is usually drunk or drugged. She's only sixteen and Hale is twenty-six," she explains patiently. She is not the only one who was kicked out of her own home; when Sam was found drunk and taking drugs, she was kicked out and moved into Savannah's. Today, Savannah has no idea where she is. Probably taking more drugs.

A Peacekeeper comes in and Liam plucks Rosie and Casey off Savannah. She watches in dread and sorrow as her daughters are carried out, she'll miss them more than anything else. Her father is the last one in the room, but he looks at her and nods simply before departing. Savannah inhales heavily. Everything will be okay once the Games begin.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

I'm so sorry about how late this chapter took to be finished. December is always a busy month for me, and I suspect it is for you all as well. But I hope you all have a fabulous Christmas! And have a good New Year! I have a feeling that this year will be better (:

As you can see, there will be two districts in each Reaping chapter. I'm doing this so hopefully we can go through the Reapings quicker, although it means larger chapters :/ I hope you can alert/favourite/review :D I hope that these tributes were written okay, and don't worry you'll all meet them again later. One last thing, the Tribute List is on my profile.

**Q3:** Which Career in this chapter you think is the strongest?

**Q4: **If you lived in the Capitol, would you either hate or love the Hunger Games?


End file.
